


Silk and Silver

by Benjamin_Winter



Series: Young Hearts: Original, Romantic Erotica [4]
Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Coming of Age, Diary/Journal, Erotica, F/M, Fantasy, Gratuitous Smut, Loss of Virginity, Low Fantasy, Oral Sex, POV First Person, Smut, Teen Romance, Teenagers, Vaginal Sex, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 09:15:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8885284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Benjamin_Winter/pseuds/Benjamin_Winter
Summary: After being told of his impending marriage to a foreign princess he’s never met, a secondborn prince decides to write a diary to sort out his thoughts. In the weeks that follow, he writes of enduring an aggravating elder brother, questioning both his own traditions and the traditions of his bride-to-be, debating how he ought to lose his virginity, and traversing the tumultuous journey of going from boy to man.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone who gives kudos has my heartfelt thanks. I do read all comments, so feel free to leave one.

_41 st_ _of Summer, Year of the Gods 1322._ _  
  
_           The nobility have been swept by an epidemic. Not an epidemic of plague or consumption, but the epidemic of the diary. I would indeed describe it as feverish. And Aunt Lisbet is not immune. She says she’s kept a diary for two years now. It seems queer, the thought of writing as though you were penning a letter to a person when in fact you are not, but they say it’s good for your health to put your thoughts to paper, to reflect on events and emotions. They say it sharpens the mind and clears the head. Gods know I need that tonight more than ever.  
  
          So here I lie in bed in my chambers, my shaggy, freshly cut but quickly growing hair still wet from the bath, clutching a leather-bound book filled with two hundred wordless pages – make that a hundred and ninety-nine wordless pages – and I hold in my hands not a quill pen but a silver-forged “dip pen,” a recent curiosity from Persevia. I was told it writes much better than the quill, and as I put the ink to the paper, I can feel that it’s the truth. Perchance this diary-keeping won’t be quite as bothersome as I’d first thought.  
  
          There’s a good deal of irony in having already mentioned Persevia, considering what I’d been told this morning. Father and Mother told me at breakfast that I was to be, at last and alas, wedded. I protested, of course, and said that I found my bachelorhood quite suitable.  
  
          “You’re a man of eighteen,” Father told me tiredly, as though I’d somehow become touched in the head and forgotten that. “It’s time to take a wife and do your duty,” he said.  
  
          How incredibly romantic. I can only wonder what my bride-to-be would think should she know that she was nothing more than my “duty.” I can’t imagine she’d be too pleased.  
  
          Again I protested, but Mother said I needn’t waste my breath, that the agreement had been made. “The wax is sealed,” she said. When I asked who my bride is, she told me her name is Sarisanya Fayarus, spoken like sair-ee-sahn-yah. A foreign girl same age as I. The firstborn daughter of the Sultan of Persevia.  
  
          Persevia _._ A peculiar land of people with silver hair and violet eyes. A land known no less for its obscene wealth and shipments of silk than it is for its slave trade, the latter of which Father tolerates only for the sake of the coffers of Persevian gold that our Kingdom frequently taps.  
  
          I didn’t bother asking why I, the younger son, am to be wedded sooner than Norman. I already knew the answer. Norman is bound for greatness. He’ll be King one day and he’s deserving of only the most worthwhile wife of the most influential family. But not I. I’ll always be just as I was born. So they’ll saddle me with a foreign bride who speaks a different tongue, a marriage Norman would never be subjected to.  
  
          Norman of course managed to find my nuptials so very hilarious. “I’m sure it’ll be lovely, having a wife with hair like a woman of age,” he quipped, laughing. “Will you let me know if her cunt hairs are silver too? I’m curious.”  
  
          That made Father red in the face, and when Norman added in a few other unseemly things I won’t dignify by writing here, Father roared at him and demanded he be silent, lest he flay him then and there.  
  
          Oh how I pity the people of the Kingdom, what with the heir to rule them being such an insufferable twit.  
  
          After Father had finished barking at Norman, Mother told me that I ought to be thrilled. She assured me that, by all accounts, Sarisanya is a beautiful, well-shapen girl who is sweet and demure. “The girl will make for a wonderful wife,” she said.  
  
          And perchance she’s right. Perchance I shouldn’t be as griping and grumpy as I am. I’m not a child anymore, and it was a given that I’d be assigned a wife before long.  
  
  
  
_48 th_ _of Summer, Year of the Gods 1322_ _  
  
_           You’d think Norman would walk with an air of gratitude, what with being the heir to everything he lays his eyes on, far and wide, sea to sea. But of course not. He’s an arrogant, petulant cunt.  
  
          To the untrained eye I imagine Norman looks to be quite the future King. He has Father’s black hair, his brown eyes, and his same great height. Father looks kingly, and Norman looks like Father. I don’t. My hair is not black like theirs, but brown and tawny like Mother’s. My eyes too are not brown like theirs, but blue, again like Mother’s. Norman’s better with a sword than I am, as well. And as much as I despise admitting it, he’s also better spoken than I am. He’s an arse, but he’s an arse with a sharp wit.  
  
          With times good like they are, with great wealth and little fever being spread, there’s one singular thing the nobility want from their future King, and that’s simply “more of the same.” And when the nobility see Norman stand beside Father, looking as a spitting image of him, handling a sword as he does, speaking with his silver tongue as he does, that’s exactly what they think Norman to be. More of the same. One day they’ll learn the hard way that Norman is not Father, that he shares little of Father’s stoicism and calmness. I would say that I don’t look forward to that day, but I see no reason in fretting over what disasters Norman will have wrought by his reign’s end. It’s not my business. I’m not a diplomat, nor any kind of man of politick. I’ll be lucky to be endowed as Lord of a city.  
  
          Norman’s the Crown Prince. I’m just the Prince.  
  
          Would I change that if I could? Would I take Norman’s place as the elder brother, as the heir? I’m not sure. No, I don’t think so. I’ve never had much of a lust for power. Much less a power of that magnitude.  
  
          If Norman were just a tiny bit less of a cunt, I’d have little to complain of. But I don’t foresee that ever happening.  
  
  
  
_57 th_ _of Summer, Year of the Gods 1322_ _  
  
_           Norman grabbed me after breakfast and told me he had a gift for me, something to celebrate my last days as a bachelor. I should have known then what he’d meant.  
  
          He dragged me to the House of Jewels, a lavish brothel reserved for only the wealthiest of men. I told Norman repeatedly I had no interest in this as he ushered me through the brothel’s doors, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. “Consider this,” he said to me, holding his arm around my shoulders. “You’re about to swear an oath to taste only one wine for the rest of your life. So, knowing that, what do you think you ought to do beforehand?”  
  
          “I don’t know,” I said. I didn’t bother to put any effort in discovering the answer. The moaning and grunting of brothelgoers behind closed doors was filling my ears, and a feeling of unease had sprouted within me. Unlike Norman, I’d never partaken in the pleasures of a whore.  
  
          “You’d spend a night tasting every fucking wine under the sun, that’s what,” he told me as he swatted the bare arse of a giggling whore who passed us by. The brothel’s madam, an elderly woman, came to us and showed Norman and I to a room at the far end of the hall. Norman ushered me inside, where the scents of fruits and perfumes wafted over me. Lying on the vast, red bed in the center of the room was a pair of girls, both fully in the nude.  
  
          Sapphire was pale with hair of golden blonde and eyes of icy blue. Jade was cocoa-skinned with black, frizzy hair and brightly green eyes. Both were stunning beyond belief, beautiful in face and body, with full lips and thick, black lashes over their eyes, as well as wide hips, plump rumps, and perky, pendulous breasts. I’ve no doubt those two were the best the brothel had to offer. Norman must’ve paid a great deal of coin for them.  
  
          “Give him something to remember, girls,” Norman told them as he pushed me into their arms. “I’ll see you at supper, Brother,” he said. He was grinning from ear to ear when he swung the door shut behind him.  
  
          Supper was nine hours from then.  
  
          The girls were on me like wolves, giggling as they tore away my clothes and pushed me down onto the bed, onto my back. I was nervous, and the girls must have sensed it. They calmed me masterfully, cooing to me with sweet voices and caressing me with soft touches. They put their hands to my member and marveled over my “princely” cock, kissing it from every which way, making me turgid in an instant. They huddled around me in what looked like an endless mass of curvaceous flesh, of full, bouncing breasts and thick, swaying arses.  
  
          Sapphire climbed onto me and pushed her heavy breasts into my face, burying me in her flesh. She pressed her nipple into my mouth and I had little choice but to take it between my lips. Below Sapphire, at my crotch, though I could not see her, I could feel Jade’s hot breath washing over my prick, and I gasped when she sank her plump, sucking lips down my crown. She bobbed her head down the length of my cock, keeping my shaft pressed against the hot flat of her tongue. She suckled me tightly, putting extra pressure on my swollen crown when her lips passed over it. She took my length to the back of her throat without a single gag or cough, sucking me from root to head wetly and noisily.  
  
          Sapphire took her breast from my lips and spun around and wiggled her fat arse as a treat for my eyes. She grabbed my hands and brought them down hard on her buttocks in a swift, sharp spank, and her arse swayed and jiggled from the force of it.  
  
          Jade worshipped my cock, hollowing her cheeks to suck me tighter, licking my head to double my pleasure, and my end was upon me in moments. The tingling in my loins turned to a burning heat, and I felt my cock twitch on Jade’s tongue as I shot the first of my seed. She kept her head bobbing and her lips sealed tight around me as my cock jumped and spurted.  
  
          Sapphire rolled off of me when she heard my groans. My eyes fell to Jade at my crotch, and when she saw my gaze, she popped her lips from my cock and opened her mouth wide, showing me the cloudy mess of white seed I’d made her tongue. She then turned and put her arms around Sapphire and took her into a wet kiss, tonguing my seed into her mouth, before Sapphire then took her turn showing me the white on her tongue. They laughed at my wide-eyed expression.  
  
          With my lust spent, the girls relaxed in bed with me, filling goblets of wine on a bedside table and pouring it down my throat, but with their warm, bare flesh pressed against mine, it wasn’t long before my manhood hardened again, and the girls noticed immediately. They giggled and brought me up onto my knees. Sapphire lay on her back, opened her legs, and spread her gold-haired cunt with two fingers. Jade grabbed my cock from behind with one hand and pushed me down onto Sapphire with the other, guiding my manhood to its destination, when a strong sense of panic suddenly crashed over me. My heart raced in my chest and my nerves jumped beneath my flesh. I slipped out from between the whores and threw on my clothes. They asked me what was wrong but I did not answer them. I simply gave them a fistful of coin and kindly requested that they tell my brother that I’d bedded each of them, should he ask.  
  
          Maybe what I did was foolish. Maybe I should’ve had my way with each of those whores and then asked for seconds. I’m well aware that men have no maidenheads to give, no purity to present to their wives, but if Sarisanya will be able to say that she’s only ever been bedded by me, then I want it to be the same for I and her. I imagine it’ll be a satisfying thought.  
  
  
  
_60 th_ _of Summer, Year of the Gods 1322._ _  
  
_           I can no longer fathom a night where some significant happening occurs and I don’t later lie in my bed inscribing my thoughts into this diary, into you, friend. The epidemic has caught me. It’s funny. I once thought of you as an encumbrance, an inconvenience to me when I wanted nothing more than to sleep. Not anymore. Now I look forward to having you in my hands at night. You don’t criticize me, you don’t scold me, you just listen and understand.  
  
          But it’s time for me to write of the matter at hand. The Significant Happening.  
  
          Sarisanya arrived this afternoon. My family hailed and welcomed her father and their entourage in the Great Hall. They bent the knee to Father, and as they knelt, I approached the girl beside the Sultan, the girl with a head of long, silver hair bowed a bit lower than any of the others. Sarisanya. I knew it was her. I leaned down and took hold of her hand and ushered her up to her feet. She looked to me with a gaze of violet eyes flush with a timid meekness. The rest of her entourage rose to their feet, and when Father nodded to me, I took Sarisanya’s arm in mine and walked with her down the west hall, towards the gardens.  
  
          I’d like to be able to say that what I did was spontaneous, that it was some sudden romantic gesture, but it wasn’t. Father had planned it, and he’d made sure I’d rehearsed it to perfection: “They’ll kneel. Sarisanya will be beside her father, the Sultan. Find her, take her hand, and walk her to the gardens. Make her feel at home.” Father must’ve told me those words a dozen times. He made it sound as though it were the vital stratagem of some great battle that would decide the fate of the Kingdom. If only my life were truly that exciting. I suppose marrying a foreign, violet-eyed, silver-haired wife will have to suffice.  
  
          I snuck more than a few covert glances Sarisanya’s way as we strode through the halls. She wore a sheer, white silk gown with pink fringes, which I was told was what all Persevian girls wore when they first met their betrothed. It was not modest. The skirt of her dress ended above her knees, and I could see that she stands on long, slender legs. She is not an inch shorter than me. The low cut of her top bore her pert cleavage to the air. Her gown accentuated her body’s features to better appeal to the eyes, my eyes, specifically. I don’t know how she wore that thing without feeling as though she were half-nude. It was more of a chemise or nightrobe than any gown a woman would dare wear in the public eye, but she wore it seemingly without shame. With nervousness, maybe, but not with shame.  
  
          Mother had certainly spoken the truth. Sarisanya is indeed well-shapen. Stunningly so. Her hips are wide and womanly, and there’s a certain feminine sway to them as she walks. Her arse, though not abundant, has a nice callipygian curve to it, and her breasts, though not bountiful, are certainly shapely and perky. Sarisanya’s allure is more elegant than carnal. Hers is not a whore’s beauty, but a Lady’s.  
  
          And, of course, Norman was wrong. Sarisanya’s hair, which falls past her shoulders, is nothing like the hair of a person of age. It’s less of a gray and more of a whitish silver. Her eyebrows are silver as well, and her sunkissed flesh brilliantly contrasts her long, white mane. She’s a far cry from all the pale and dark-haired Ladies I’ve ever seen. Others would think Sarisanya’s looks are off-putting or strange, friend, but I certainly don’t.  
  
          “Do you speak the western tongue at all?” I asked her, half-expecting her to make no response.  
  
          “Yes,” she said with a nod, which pleasantly surprised me. “But ... I listen better than I speak.”  
  
          She spoke her short I’s as though they were long E’s, and she was strong on her S’s. When she’d said, “I listen,” it sounded more of “I leessen.” But it’s not as though I had a hard time understanding her. It’s not like that. She spoke rather well, all things considered. And when I’d heard her speak that first time, I knew then that the nasty rumors of Persevian women having voices like men clearly were not true. Sarisanya’s voice was high and gentle and floated light on the air. It was pretty.  
  
          We strode through the arched doorway into the garden, where we found a pair of servants tending to the daisies and dahlias. I shooed them away with a snap of my fingers and sat with Sarisanya on a stone bench. I imagine that a more romantic man would’ve used that moment to pick a bouquet of flowers for his bride, but I didn’t know where to start. Which flowers should I have picked? Which ones smell the best? Do we have roses in the gardens? Do Persevians even care for flowers?  
  
          “Can I call you Sari?” I asked her. I knew then would be the best time for the question. The earlier the better. Thinking of it now, as I write this, I’m even more grateful that I’d asked. Writing five less letters every time I mention her name is a much appreciated rest for my hand.  
  
          “Yes,” she quickly answered, nodding and smiling.  
  
          We fell silent again and sat there in the peace and quiet for some time, for how long exactly I’m not quite sure. It was a long while. I half expected the sun to fall and the moon to rise before either of us made a sound.  
  
          “Do I please you?” Sari asked me, and it was then that I realized I’d been awkwardly staring at her.  
  
          “What?” I uttered dumbly.  
  
          She began to wring her hands. “Am I pleasing?” she asked again. She looked terrified of disappointing me.  
  
          “Yes, absolutely,” I assured her as sweetly and as gently as I could. “You’re beautiful. Very beautiful.”  
  
          Yes, “very beautiful,” those were my words, and their half-witted simplicity is not lost on me. I had three weeks of preparing for Sari’s arrival. Three long weeks, and yet somehow I still found myself struggling to use more than any few different words at a time.  
  
          “Thank you,” she said softly, looking relieved. Her gaze swept over the flowers around us and she said, “Your garden is beautiful.” I noticed that she took care to pronounce “beautiful” exactly as I did.  
  
          “Oh, it’s, no, it’s not mine,” I stammered. “I don’t tend to it.”  
  
          Gods, I should have just agreed. I should have just accepted the compliment, as she had done. Anything but be bloody pedantic. Of course she knew I don’t tend to the damned garden. I sincerely hope Sari was not expecting her betrothed to be dashing and silver-tongued. If she did, she was very quickly disappointed.  
  
          We didn’t speak much more before Mother came and fetched us for supper, and I was grateful when she did. Not because Sari’s presence offended or annoyed me, not at all. I enjoyed her company. I had simply grown quite tired of making a fool of myself.  
  
  
  
_62 nd_ _of Summer, Year of the Gods 1322._ _  
  
_           Father and the Sultan spent the past few days talking of diplomatic matters before the wedding, settling various disputes and what not. They thought it a good chance to have Sari and I spend time together, and I should think myself fortunate. Very few betrothed highborn get even a single day to grow accustomed to their future spouse, the person they’ll be spending the rest of their days with. And thankfully, I’ve managed to embarrass myself much less around Sari in this time. A good sign.  
  
          I showed Sari around the Capital and had her sample life here in the West. I had her taste our foods, drink our wine, listen to our music, but she did a bit more than “taste” the food. She devoured plate after plate with a voraciousness I’d never before seen in a girl so thin. She didn’t lack table manners, but any amount of food placed before her would disappear very quickly. How she keeps that figure of hers I’ll never know, friend. She’s blessed in more ways than one.  
  
          Sari has sharpened her western tongue, as well. By her own request, I take the time to correct her whenever she uses the wrong word or the wrong tense. I’ve had to correct her less and less as those few days passed. Her accent has faded. She speaks her short I’s as long E’s only half as often as she did before. She’s a swift learner.  
  
          I should note that Sari was hesitant to try even a single sip of wine. She said in Persevia it was a drink reserved for the “lenretera,” which seems to crudely translate to “adults.” How does Sari think herself a child? She’s grown. She’s had her blood. Hell, she’s getting married. She’s an adult in every sense of the word. So I told her that if she’s old enough to be shipped off from her home and sworn to a man, then she is certainly old enough to have a cup of wine. Eventually she did agree to enjoy a well-aged merlot with me, though I’m not sure if it was more thanks to my convincing words or more from her overbearing need to do all she can to avoid my disapproval.  
  
          Sari fears me, friend. She fears the very possibility of my displeasure. She acts as though I’m likely to snap at the first perceived slight and strike her or curse her name, neither of which I’ve ever once done nor ever would do. It wounds me, seeing her act so sheepish around me. I see that look of unease in her eyes and I feel monstrous.  
  
          I voiced this concern to Mother and she assured me that Sari’s fear is not a fault of mine. “It’s their way,” she said with a dismissing shrug, as though she were describing the weather or anything else that was utterly unchangeable. She said that, for a Persevian wife, the favor and good grace of her husband is paramount. “They have no greater duty,” she told me.  
  
          I don’t like that, friend. A wife that bases her life solely off the needs of her husband is not living any life at all. I decided then that I’d make it clear to Sari that there is no person whose feelings or desires she should place above her own. Not me, not her father, not my father, not anyone. She’s not cattle. I refuse to let her see herself as such.  
  
          The next day, when Sari and I were enjoying a meal on a balcony overlooking the city, I began to take notice of her wincing and grunting in discomfort. I asked her what troubled her, but she was hesitant to admit anything was wrong. After some prodding, she admitted that the corset under her dress was particularly tight. I asked her who dresses her and she told me Missus Withers does. One of Mother’s lady’s maids. I asked Sari if she could simply request that her corset be tied looser, but Sari said Missus Withers was told by her father himself to ensure it was tied tight.  
  
          So I went and found Missus Withers that evening after supper, while she helped the scullery maids clean in the kitchens, and I asked her very kindly to tie Sari’s corset looser in the future. She seemed surprised by my request, but she promised me that she’d do as I asked.  
  
  
  
_64 th_ _of Summer, Year of the Gods 1322._ _  
  
_           Last night was one for the ages, friend. I’m a married man. I fear my hand will ache by the time I’ve finished writing this, but it will be worth it, friend, that I can assure you.  
  
          The air was stuffy and humid in the church. The pews were lined to the brim with guests three hundred strong, men and women far overdressed for such a hot and crowded environment. I could feel beads of sweat trickle down my neck, though I admit I’m not sure if the sweat was more from the heat or more from my anxiety. I wrung my hands nervously as I stood with the High Priest at the altar and waited for Sari’s arrival. I looked to my family on the pew closest to me and saw Father glaring daggers at me. He jerked his head towards my hands, silently demanding for me to be still and stand proper, and so I let my hands rest at my sides. Norman snickered, but Mother beamed me a bright, reassuring smile. Now that I think of it, friend, an artist could’ve painted them then and had the perfect framing of my family. Father being stern. Mother being encouraging. Norman laughing his arse off.  
  
          The chattering amongst the congregation was silenced when the doors at the far end of the hall swung open. Sari and the Sultan stood in the doorway, with the Sultan holding Sari’s arm. Sari was garbed in a white gown that was far lighter than most wedding dresses I’d seen, without the long, sweeping train dragging on the floor behind her. There was a white veil over her face, but I knew it was her. I’d have known it was her even if it weren’t our wedding. I know her figure. I know her long legs.  
  
          Have I written before, friend, of how portly the Sultan is? He waddled up the aisle with Sari as though he were a pair of stubby planks attached to a wobbling orb. I suppose it’s unseemly to write so disparagingly of him while I write of marrying his daughter, but it needed to be said, friend, and you know me well enough to know that I mean no offense.  
  
          The Sultan walked Sari to my side and nodded to me before leaving to take his seat on the front pew on the side of aisle opposite my family. I brushed Sari’s veil away from her face and found her glowing. Her violet eyes were glimmering and her teeth were bared in a wide, joyful smile. Any concerns I had of our nuptials being something Sari did not want was gone at that moment, friend. I’d never seen her happier.  
  
          Sari gave me her hand, and we turned together to face the altar. The ceremony began immediately. The High Priest wrapped each of our hands tightly together in a silken cloth, Persevian silk, no doubt, and had me repeat my vows after him.  
  
          “I take you, Sarisanya Fayarus, here, in the sight of Gods and men, as my wife in love, law, and faith. I swear myself to you, to protect you and to cherish you, forever, in this life and the next. Blood of my blood. Flesh of my flesh. Spirit of my spirit.”  
  
          I met Sari’s gaze as I said the words. I’m not much for metaphors, friend, but I tell you now that the violet in her eyes was a sea that I would never regret becoming lost adrift within.  
  
          Sari said her vows then. They were identical to mine, aside from my name. She kept her eyes on mine as she said them. When she finished, the High Priest pulled the cloth from our hands, but our fingers stayed clasped together.  
  
          “With the honor of the Gods,” the High Priest began, “I pronounce you husband and wife.” He fell quiet for a long moment, whether for tradition’s sake or for dramatic effect I’m not sure, but eventually, he looked from Sari to me and said, “You may kiss.”  
  
          The next moment seemed to last for an eternity. Truly, friend, it was as though the flow of time had slowed to a trickle. Sari and I leaned together in perfect unison, as though we were not two persons but one, and our eyes fell closed as we kissed. My mind became barren in that moment, save for one singular thought, a thought that I’ll always remember: soft. The feeling of Sari’s lips.  
  
          Time uproariously began anew when we kissed. The congregation rose from their feet and erupted into a thunderous applause. I’m surprised the walls managed to stay standing.  
  
          Things moved fast then. Sari and I were shepherded from the church back to the keep. Flower girls threw petals of red and white roses at our feet, and crowds of commonfolk watched and cheered from behind rows of armed palace guards. I’ve never understood that, the phenomenon of commoners cheering on the marriages of highborn, people they know nothing about, people who often care little for them and even conspire against them. Lowborn take any reason to be happy, I suppose. And any reason to drink. But don’t mistake that for contempt, friend. I don’t blame them.  
  
          Sari squeezed my hand tight while we walked, and I’m not sure if it was more from love or nerves. Equally both, I’d think.  
  
          The feast began immediately in the Great Hall, which was packed full with each of the three hundred men and women who observed the wedding. Sari and I and my family were seated at the long table at the helm of the hall, raised a few steps above all the others. Father sat at the center of the table, Sari and I at his right, and Mother and Norman at his left. Hordes of servants brought dishes of every food imaginable. Quail, goose, boar, mutton, venison, oysters, cockles, cheeses and nuts. Sari shared a goblet of wine with me without a second thought. She was laughing and enjoying herself, and thus I was as well. And her appetite was as ravenous as ever. I challenged myself to match her as she ate, but I could not. I’m almost laughing just thinking of it, friend. She must be at least thirty pounds lighter than me and yet her appetite shames mine. Her stomach is a bottomless pit.  
  
          I noticed Norman slip away from the table and sneak off, but, strangely, his absence didn’t upset Father. I would find out soon where he’d gone off to, but at that moment, and I’m now ashamed to say this, I was glad he left.  
  
          Sari and I were brought gifts as we ate. Many, many gifts. More than we’ll know what to do with. My cousins and aunts and uncles brought gems and jewelry, most of which were for Sari, but their well-wishing seemed secondary to their interest in marveling over my bride as though she were some otherworldly, silver-haired oddity. That angered me. So too did the shocked expressions on their faces when they heard her speak our tongue so well. It was like they’d seen a dog speak words. Perchance I took it too personally? Sari seemed unoffended. But she’s my wife, and isn’t it my duty, friend, to take things such as those personally, even if she doesn’t?  
  
          The Sultan brought a thick, neatly folded blanket of pink silk. When other silver-haired diplomats and visitors brought more silk blankets, I realized it was some sort of Persevian tradition. By the time the last blanket was brought, we’d been given enough silk to fill an armoire.  
  
          When I looked up from a colossal goose Sari and I were sharing and saw Norman standing before our table, I feared the worst. I was worried that Norman had gone and retrieved some joke gift to humiliate me in front of my bride, but I realized it was a fear misplaced. The sheathed sword and swordbelt he held in his hands was not a joke.  
  
          “A prince needs a sword,” he said to me, grinning as he always did. “So, with Father’s blessing, I had this made for you. A sword worthy of royalty.”  
  
          It was stunning, friend. The sword’s hilt is plated with silver, the same shade of Sari’s hair, and encrusted with a series of small, finely-cut diamonds. The scabbard is plated with silver just as the hilt is.  
  
          “Put the belt on,” Norman told me as he handed it to me, and I did as he asked and fastened it around my waist. “The fit’s good, isn’t it?” he asked me. I nodded but said nothing. I couldn’t find the words. “I made sure it was,” he said. “I wanted everything to be right.”  
  
          I put my hand to the hilt and rested my palm on the pommel. I shivered from a cold chill. I was astounded. I’d always wanted a sword like that, and now I have one. I turned to Sari, and she smiled when she saw the gleeful look on my face, like a child holding a fistful of sweets.  
  
          “Well, go on then,” Norman said when I looked back to him. “Draw it.”  
  
          I pulled the sword from its sheath and gasped as the steel sang proudly. The guests who heard it cheered and hollered and soon the whole hall had risen from their seats and applauded, Mother and Father and Sari included. Norman clapped with them. “Silver throat in the scabbard,” he said, speaking of the steel’s singing. “I figured you’d enjoy that.”  
  
          “I do,” I said, finally finding my voice again.  
  
          “I call it Silver,” he said as he looked to Sari. “In honor of your beautiful wife. But you can rename it if you’d like.”  
  
          “No,” I said softly. “It’s a good name.”  
  
          I looked over Silver for a while, admiring its beauty and craftsmanship and its perfect weight in my hands before finally returning it to its scabbard. Norman and I looked to each other until, without words, we embraced in a firm hug. I closed my eyes and squeezed him tight. I can’t remember the last time I’d hugged him before then. I’d missed him.  
  
          “And Brother,” Norman whispered by my ear as he gave me a few hearty pats on my back. “I’d still appreciate it if, after tonight, you could sate that little curiosity of mine.”  
  
          I remembered right away what he was speaking of. The “silver cunt hairs.” I laughed as I shoved him off. “Away with you,” I said.  
  
          “I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” he chuckled as he left for his seat beside Mother.  
  
          “What did he say?” Sari asked me when I sat beside her again.  
  
          “He wishes us well,” I told her. A good-intentioned fib, friend. I don’t intend to make lying to Sari a habit. I just didn’t want her blushing red from knowing his actual words. And she needn’t worry. I absolutely will not be sating Norman’s curiosity on that matter.  
  
           The feast lasted for hours, until after the sun had set. When the wine had run dry and the food had been eaten to the bones, Father ended the feast, and I shook the guests’ hands as they left while Sari curtsied to them. When the hall had emptied, Father did not waste time. He had a pair of guards quickly escort Sari and I to our bedroom. “Good night,” Norman bid us with a devilish glint in his eyes.  
  
          Our bedroom – which, I should note, I have no problem referring to now as “ours” instead of “mine” – was dimly lit. The only light was that of the fireplace, the flames of which burned bright but crackled quietly. When I swung shut the door behind us, I turned and found Sari standing before the fire. I strode to her and joined her side.  
  
          “Here we are,” she said quietly as she turned to me, smiling weakly.  
  
          “Here we are,” I said with a nod. When she rubbed her hand on her shoulder, I asked her, “Are you nervous?”  
  
          Sari looked away for a moment, to our bed, before looking back to me. “Yes,” she said.  
  
          There was a sinking feeling in my chest after she said that. I don’t blame her for being nervous – I was nervous, even – but I didn’t want to lie with a girl who didn’t want it with all her heart. It wouldn’t be right.  
  
          “We don’t have to do this,” I said. I can hardly believe I uttered those words. I’d fantasized of lying with her on that night. I was lusting for it, hungering for it, I wanted with every fiber of my being to bed her. Any other highborn husband would’ve denied his wife the choice to reject him. But I don’t want to be any other husband. I want to be me. “They won’t know we didn’t consummate,” I told her. “No one would know.”  
  
          Sari grabbed my hands. “I’m nervous,” she said. “But I’m not afraid.”  
  
          When I looked into her violet eyes, I knew she spoke the truth. There was none of that unease in her gaze that I’d so often fretted over. There was no fear. Only desire.  
  
          She pulled my hands towards her and pressed herself against me as she kissed me. Her lips were soft against mine. I put my hand to the back of her head, to her silver hair, and held her firm against me. I kissed her deeper, with more passion, and Sari welcomed it. Our breath turned hot and ragged, and our kiss turned lustful. Our tongues met for the first time, and it felt unlike anything I’d ever known. Her wet tongue pressed against mine was something both greatly pleasurable and greatly arousing, and I wanted more of it. I danced my tongue over hers, and when Sari’s breath shifted into moans, so too did mine.  
  
          Then, suddenly, Sari broke our kiss and reared backwards from me. “What do you say in your tongue at this time?” she asked me as she scanned her eyes across mine.  
  
          “‘I love you,’” I answered her, but I quickly shook my head as I said, “But you don’t have to say it. You only say it if you mean it.”  
  
          She put her hands to my cheeks. “I love you,” she whispered.  
  
          I locked my gaze with hers. “I love you too,” I whispered back.  
  
          And I meant it, friend. I don’t know how. I’d known this girl for less than a week and yet, somehow, I meant it. I can’t explain it, friend. But these things never do have explanations, do they?  
  
          Sari kissed me again and returned her tongue to mine. We kissed for a long while, our lips mingling as the heat of the fire washed over us. When my lust grew too strong to ignore and I managed to tear myself from her, Sari knew exactly what I desired. She put her hands to her shoulders and pulled her gown over her head.  
  
          I suppose I should stop here. It seems indecent to write in detail the consummation of my marriage to my wife. I wrote of that hour with those two whores in the House of Jewels, but that was different. Those whores had no modesty to lose. Sari does.  
  
          But when I’m old and my hair grays and my memories drift to a fog, I’ll want to have you, friend, to have this diary to read. I’ll want to be able to relive that night Sari and I first shared each other’s love. Maybe it’s lewd, maybe it’s improper, maybe it’s indecent, I don’t much care. I want to remember that night exactly as it happened, with every bit of love and pleasure described exactly as I remember it.  
  
          I moved to the bed and sat on its edge, and I had Sari stand with her back to me as I unfastened the straps of her corset. I smiled when I felt how loose the fit was. Missus Withers honored my request. After I’d pulled the corset off, I moved to her garter and popped its back straps. I put my hands to each side of Sari’s waist and turned her to me. I pecked a quick kiss on her flat stomach as I popped the garter’s front straps, dropping the garter to the floor, and Sari giggled at the touch of my lips. Ticklish girl. Sari reached behind herself and unfastened her white brassiere, but her breasts yet stayed hidden beneath her long, silver hair. I brushed the locks of hair away like curtains, and my lust burned hot when I finally saw them. Her breasts have some heft but they stand well, with no sagging, and sport pink, perky nipples that point outwards. I can vividly remember the sound of Sari gasping when I first put my hands to them. I squeezed them and marveled at their feeling. The flesh of her breasts was warm and soft, but her teats stood hot and hard, flush with blood and lust.  
  
          I grabbed Sari by her waist and pulled her down beside me, seating her on the bed’s edge. I slipped down onto my knees before her and turned to her, facing her crotch. I grabbed her white stockings, and Sari raised her legs for me as I peeled them off her. When they were gone, I sighed as I ran my hands up and down her bare legs, marveling over their smoothness. I had been looking forward to that moment I could first touch her legs for a very long time. They were perfect. Sari was perfect. She was everything I thought she would be. A silver goddess to call my own. Stunning and gorgeous from her head to her long, beautiful legs to her toes.  
  
          I kissed her again and again, putting my lips to every inch of her smooth legs, but even as absorbed in her legs as my mind was, my eyes kept peering at her white panties between her open thighs. I was lusting for more than her legs. So I ceased my kissing and grabbed the waistband of her panties and pulled them down to her ankles, and Sari did her part by kicking them off her feet. I put my hands to her thighs and gently pushed them open, and Gods is she incredible. I don’t much know of any standards of beauty for what’s between a woman’s legs, but Sari’s cunt enthralls me. Though I was already like steel, my manhood hardened further at the sight of it. The outer folds of her slit are plump and furred with a fine, white-silver hair that’s short and soft. Trimmed, it looks like. The pink lips of her cunt are partly hidden within her. She was sodden wet, her inflamed gash shining with moisture. With her legs spread, a strange scent rolled from her cunt, a scent unlike anything I’d ever smelled. Pungent and musky, but wholly and utterly erotic. My member twitched in my trousers at her scent.  
  
          An overbearing desire to taste her overtook me, and so I lowered my head down between her legs, but Sari’s hands darted out as she grabbed me by my cheeks and stopped me. “What are you doing?” she asked me.  
  
          I spared her a quick glance before looking back to her cunt. “Kissing you.”  
  
          She shook her head. “Those not my lips,” she said.  
  
          “‘Aren’t,’” I corrected her gently. Then I smirked and whispered, “And yes, they are.”  
  
          Sari didn’t object after that. She drew her hands back and took her forefinger gently between her teeth as she watched me. I brought my lips to her cunt and smooched several loving kisses around her soft-haired cleft, planting my lips firm enough with each kiss that the squishy flesh of her folds yielded downwards beneath them. The last kiss I planted directly onto her gash, and Sari’s eyes jammed shut as her legs twitched around me. But I was far from finished. I put my hands to each side of her white-furred folds and pulled them open, spreading her flower. The little button of her clitoris rose forth and greeted me, but I didn’t disturb it just yet. The tunnel of her cunt was thinner than I’d imagined it, as it was encircled and partly shielded by a thin membrane which took me a moment to recognize. Sari’s maidenhead. Her gift to me. Thoughts came to my mind worrying of what pain I would inflict on her, but I quieted them. I knew I’d do everything I could to ensure that pain did not happen.  
  
          More of Sari’s frothy essence bubbled up from her in her lust, and I put my open mouth to her cunt, gathering her nectar on my tongue and swallowing it down. It was a strange taste, a bit metallic and sour, but I immediately wanted more of it. I brushed my tongue against her in slow, rhythmic motions, licking every corner of her wet cunt with every long stroke. Sari began to gasp above me.  
  
          “Is it good?” I asked her, but I didn’t wait for her answer before returning my tongue to her flower.  
  
          “Yes,” she squeaked.  
  
          I ran my thumbs affectionately over her spread folds, lovingly petting her silver shorthairs as I swept my tongue a bit faster over her cunt. Ready to start truly working her, I gave Sari’s clitoris the first quick flick with my tongue. Her legs locked like an iron jaw around my head at that, and the flow of her fluids came stronger. I delved my tongue as deep into her tunnel as I could, soaking it in her wetness for a short while before drawing it back again and flicking it across and around her labial lips and folds. I made each lick of her clitoris firmer and longer-lasting than the one before it, steadily building her pleasure to the best of my ability, and Sari’s breath quickened from my efforts. It was exhilarating to see her reacting as she did. I was glad to know I could please my wife.  
  
          When Sari’s gasps turned to moans, I knew she was close. I planted my mouth firm over her flower and lapped at her open cunt, battering her clitoris with my tongue. Her legs tightened firmer around my head and she bit down harder on her finger. I pressed my tongue against her clitoris, smothering the little button with unending heat and moisture, and Sari cried out at the top of her lungs, jamming her eyes shut as she reached her finish and a blissful pleasure wracked her body.  
  
          When her pleasure faded, I gave her one final, parting lick from the bottom to the top of her flower, and I finally took my mouth from her cunt. Her sour taste was thick on my tongue. Sari was lying utterly still when I stood to my feet, and she watched me languidly – still coming down from the height of her orgasm – as I began to unbutton my shirt. I tossed it aside and pulled down my trousers and breeches, freeing my erection that had become so hard that it now ached. Sari’s eyes widened a bit at the sight of it, but she did not stare long. She shifted backwards into bed so that her legs no longer hung over the side, and she lay properly with her head against our pillows. I climbed into bed over her and she greeted me with a deep, tongue-laden kiss. She spread her legs as I put my knees between them. I grabbed my cock and guided it forward to Sari’s silver-haired cleft, but I stopped myself when I looked back to her face and saw the anxiety in her eyes. She was nervous, too nervous for me to proceed. I wasn’t going to let myself hurt her.  
  
          “Okay,” I sighed as I rolled off of her and lay beside her. I tapped my hand on her thigh and then tapped my own waist. “Climb on top.”  
  
          Her eyes went to my waist and then back to me. “I can’t be top,” she mumbled with a weak shake of her head.  
  
          “Why not?” I asked.  
  
          “It’s not right,” she said softly. “Not right for wife to be top.”  
  
          I let out a short, tired breath. I’d grown quite tired of the Persevian culture and how it somehow manages to be more patriarchal than my own. But an idea came to me as I lay there, and I looked to Sari again. “I’m your husband, yeah?” I asked her.  
  
          She quickly nodded.  
  
          “And you ought to listen to me?”  
  
          Again she nodded.  
  
          “Then I say it is right,” I told her. “I say you can do as you like.”  
  
          That seemed to have convinced her. Sari rose forward and cautiously climbed over and onto me, putting her hands to my chest to steady herself. My cock brushed against her buttocks, and Sari turned her head to peer down at it when she felt it. “You set the pace,” I said to her as I caressed her thighs. “We’ll go at your speed. Just use your hips. And if you want to stop, you can stop.”  
  
          My hand is burning now from writing all this, but I can’t stop here. It’s so vivid in my mind. I’m living the night again. I have to keep putting it to paper.  
  
          Sari reached behind herself and wrapped her soft hand around my manhood. She gave it a series of gentle, delicate tugs, familiarizing herself with the feel of it, and I moved my hands from her thighs to her breasts, filling my palms with her warm flesh. Sari raised her arse a short way and pointed my cock to her folds, and she bit her bottom lip as she lowered herself onto me. She moaned when my crown slipped into the tight slit of her cunt, enveloping me in an incredible heat and wetness that pulled the breath from my lungs. Gods was she hot inside. Like a furnace. But she wasn’t just hot. She was sodden. No less wet than she was warm. And she was snug. I could feel the beat of her heart in her walls as they hugged and squeezed my prick. Sari then sank herself down faster than I thought she would, quickly pushing my cock up to her hilt, till her folds kissed the base of my cock and the shorthairs of our crotches mingled in colors of silver and brown. She shut her eyes and winced at what looked to be a sharp, pinching pain.  
  
          “Slow down, love,” I told her. I grabbed her hands and clasped our fingers together. “Don’t hurt yourself,” I said.  
  
          Heeding my words, Sari took care to rise slowly, her gripping cunt sliding up along my length until only my head still rested in her heat. Already I felt a tingling in the base of my cock as pre-seed crawled up and leaked from my crown. I knew I wouldn’t last long.  
  
          The pain in Sari’s expression disappeared as she rose and fell on my cock in a slow, steady pace, and it wasn’t long before I began to hear the pleasure again in her shallow breath. She opened her eyes and met mine, and we locked gazes as she rode me. She bounced on me with more and more vigor, till her breasts jiggled from the force of our lovemaking. I groaned as the pleasure grew stronger, and I felt more pre-seed ooze from me as it joined and became lost in the moisture of her tunnel.  
  
          Desire was flooding my mind. I’d never felt so much pleasure in my life, and yet I wanted more. Watching Sari moan over me, seeing her breasts swaying, hearing that slapping of our flesh, it tapped into a hunger of mine I didn’t know was there. Sari’s pain was gone, and thus I let my lust consume me. I took my hands away from Sari’s and put them to her back and pulled her down onto me as I took her into a hot, hungry kiss. I rose forward a bit, keeping my hands to Sari’s back, and I spun us around in one effortless flourish so that Sari lay on her back, all while keeping our lips joined in a kiss and keeping my manhood sheathed inside her. I put my hands to her thighs and pressed them open, as far as they would go, to give myself better room to thrust into her. I crashed my hips into hers, thrusting my cock hard into her sodden, grasping cunt, rocking her bouncing breasts. Sari moaned and whipped her head from side to side, tussling her silver hair as I pounded and ravaged her.  
  
          I was primal. I was animalistic. I wanted more of the pleasure Sari’s body gave me. I wanted to feel her cunt gripping hot and wet on my cock and I wanted to feel it from root to tip. I pushed the whole length of my prick into her with every thrust, not once misfiring, not once letting my crown slip from her depths. A priest would’ve called my lust sinful. But if Sari is a gift from the Gods, then she is a gift I won’t waste.  
  
          My legs tensed and my throbbing cock swelled harder as my orgasm hurtled towards me, forcing the walls of Sari’s cunt further apart. Sari seemed to have sensed my climax. She put her hand to the back of my head and kissed me deeply and passionately, pressing her tongue firm against mine, just as I'd kissed her before, and I groaned loudly as my cock twitched and shot my seed into her by intense, blissfully burning contractions. I kept my length sheathed in Sari’s hot cunt as the thick spurts of seed came one after the other, and though I could not see it, I began to wonder just how much of it I was putting inside her.  
  
          “I love you,” Sari whispered to me after I’d breathed my last groan.  
  
          “I love you too,” I whispered back.  
  
          I took my lips from hers, overtaken by a primal curiosity to see the aftermath of what I’d done, and I watched keenly as I slipped my cock out of her cunt. A stringy rope of seed hung from my crown to her gash, until it broke and fell onto the sheets beneath us. More of my seed suddenly flowed from her, making her slit drool a thick white.  
  
          I collapsed beside Sari as my mind lurched heavy and dull with tiredness. We slipped under the heavy sheets and embraced each other as a slumber came and took us.  
  
  
  
_69 th_ _of Summer, Year of the Gods 1322._ _  
  
_           I’d go to war for Sari. I’d kill for her. I’d die for her.  
  
          It sounds silly. It sounds of barbaric, chest-thumping bluster, I know it does. But I can’t help it. I feel it in my bones. I’m besotted, friend, truly and utterly. I don’t think I’d be able to sleep without her anymore, without feeling her head on my shoulder, her arm around my waist, her breasts against my side.  
  
          My passion for Sari is a fire that has been blazing this past week. I can’t keep my hands off of her, and thankfully, she seems to be rather enjoying it. We spend the better part of any given day making love, again and again, every which way we can, until it’s nightfall and we’re collapsing into our bed, our chests heaving with breath and our flesh wet with sweat.  
  
          The morning before last, after we’d awoken, I had servants gather hot water in a tub for us. A single tub. Sari took issue with that, at first. She said Persevian culture dictates men and women do not share bathwater. A silly tradition. A tradition that Sari thankfully did not hesitate to discard.  
  
          I sat in the water first. Sari seated herself in my lap, keeping her hand to my prick as she guided it up and into her, and, despite myself being submerged in the water, I felt her. I so very much felt her. As hot as the water was, her cunt was hotter. No matter how many nights Sari and I join our flesh, the bliss Sari’s depths showers my manhood in never fails to leave me wordless, my open mouth giving nothing but breathy gasps and groans. Even imagining Sari’s cunt now, not four hours past the last time we’ve made love, I grow lustful still. Sari is every bit a goddess of pleasure as she is a goddess of beauty.  
  
          The water splashed noisily as she bounced on me, crashing her arse into my splayed hips. There was no pain on Sari’s face, nor a single wince of discomfort, not like when I’d first bedded her. Instead, her violet eyes burned with passion. Her lust for me was no weaker than mine for her.  
  
          I leaned forward and put my lips to her breast to take her stiff teat into my mouth, and Sari answered by pushing her chest into me, offering me more of her flesh as I suckled her. I ran my hands across her body until one settled with a handful of her silver hair and the other with a handful of her shapely arse.  
  
          It’s hard to put to words the pleasure Sari gives me. Joy. Heat. Thrill. Ecstasy. Euphoria. I’m sure there are other words too. I’ve never been much of a penman.  
  
          When Sari brought me to my end, I took my lips from her breast and gave a loud groan as I rested my head against the tub. I closed my eyes and savored the pleasure as my cock pulsed inside her cunt, twitching in bliss, my heart thudding hard in my chest. I’ll never forget the feeling of pure heat in that moment. The heat of the water. The heat inside Sari. The heat of my orgasm.  
  
          My eyes were still closed when I felt Sari press her soft lips onto mine. Gods, I could kiss her till the end of my days.  
  
          I’m not sure if we were any cleaner by the time we left the tub, but we were certainly more satisfied.  
  
  
  
_71 st_ _of Summer, Year of the Gods 1322._ _  
  
_           Sari’s not quite that timid girl I’d first met in the Great Hall. She’s different now. She holds herself well. She keeps her chin a bit higher, her shoulders a bit squarer. She’s speaking the western tongue near-perfectly, as well. It won’t be long before she’s speaking more proper than I do. Father and Mother have taken quite the liking to her, and even Norman seems to enjoy her company.  
  
          Last night, when Sari and I were in bed, she was resting her head on my chest and telling me stories of her five siblings, of funny things they’d often done, quirks of theirs. I thought I’d heard homesickness in her voice. When she paused, I asked her if she missed Persevia. I was going to offer to visit it with her, if she wanted. Or, Gods, if it meant her being happy, I’d even live there with her.  
  
          But she said no. “I don’t miss it,” she told me. “I don’t want to go back.” There was no sadness or regret in her voice. “I want to stay here,” she said. “With you.”  
  
          Of all the things in my life, perchance I should feel most thankful for being born in good health, or born in this great wealth, or even being born as Prince, second son of the King. But I don’t, friend. What I’m most thankful for isn’t any of that. It’s her. It’s Sari.  
  
  
  
_67 th_ _of Spring, Year of the Gods 1323._ _  
  
_           As you may notice from the signed date, a great deal of time has passed since I last wrote, and it was not by my choosing. But it’s good to have you in my hands again, friend. I’ve missed you.  
  
          I’ve moved from the Capital to Wulcirk, but before the journey, Sari and I had lumped together a colossal pile of the gifts we’d been given for our wedding, and some bloody fool had cast you, this diary, into that pile, and there you remained, lost, until just this evening. I suppose I could’ve purchased a new diary and started anew, but it wouldn’t have been the same, and there was too much here to begin anew. Too many important memories to lose. But, truth be said, I doubt I could have written much in these past thirty-something weeks regardless. Much has happened, and it’s kept me very busy.  
  
          Aunt Lisbet’s only child and my first cousin, Pierce, died to a fever early in the autumn. My family and I left the Capital to join her in mourning, but with his death, Lisbet was left both widowed and childless, and there was no longer an heir to Wulcirk. The week after the funeral, the decision was made that Sari and I would take up residence here, and that Aunt Lisbet would tutor me in governance until she felt I was sufficiently learned, at which point she’d abdicate the Lordship to me. On that note, Lisbet seems to have grown tired of governing, and all signs point to me becoming a Lord by the end of the year. I find myself struggling to wrap my head around it. I’m sure there have been Lords younger than eighteen at some point in history, but the thought still seems outlandish. I’ve been training with guardsmen, learning to better handle Silver. Honorable Lords are expected to be able to fight for their city. I’ve never been much of a conformist, but in this regard, I intend to be no different.  
  
          As if that alone weren’t enough excitement to write of, there is yet more that has happened.  
  
          Sari is pregnant. Those three words alone – Sari is pregnant – don’t seem to fully do the fact justice. It’s astounding to see a belly so swollen on a girl so slender. Sari has said she will not employ a wet nurse. She says she’ll feed the babe herself, which Aunt Lisbet was not surprised to hear. She says Sari is “motherly.” When I first laid eyes on Sari months ago, I would never have thought to describe Sari in that way, as “motherly,” if only because a child was the very last thing on my mind, but it rings true. I imagine she’ll spend more time with the little one than even the nursery maids will. I’ve asked Sari if she has ideas for a name, and though she says she has none, she always says it with a glint in her eye. She has a name in mind that she’s keeping secret, evidently. But I have no ideas for a name myself, so I’m fine with waiting for her to unveil her suggestion.  
  
          Sari’s grown her hair longer now, as well, down to the small of her back. A river of silver from head to waist.  
  
          To think, when I’d first met Sari, I thought then that she ate a great deal for someone so thin. Now she eats for two. Aunt Lisbet says Sari’s thirty-six weeks along. I should note that the night I married Sari, the night we first made love, was thirty-nine weeks ago. The seed was swift in taking root. Mother said it’s a good omen for a couple to be fertile and sire children early. She said it’s the Gods smiling on our union. Maybe that’s true, but it doesn’t ease my worries.  
  
          Seeing Sari as heavy with child as she is, I can’t help but think of Mother and how hard and brutal Norman and I were on her, how I myself had nearly killed her in my birth, how she’d been forced to consume silphium after my coming, lest she die birthing a third child. I think of all this, and I fear for Sari. I find myself picturing her grave, with Pierce’s death still fresh in my mind, and picturing my life without her. I can’t fathom it.  
  
          I am afraid.  
  
          But Sari isn’t. She lives each day with more confidence and courage than the last. She keeps her eyes trained forward, facing what lies before us, without any thought of things out of our control. She is fearless.  
  
  
  
_73 rd_ _of Spring, Year of the Gods 1323._ _  
  
_           It’s a boy. He has my hair and my eyes. Sari gave him my name.


End file.
